


Free Time

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya must face the one enemy of theirs that they can't conquer - retirement as active Section Two Agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Time

“It’s not fair.”

“Since when is life fair?  Since when is our life fair?  We do what we do and we pay the price.”  Napoleon pushed the glass away, out of reach, the condensation marking its path on the polished wood.

“We deserve better.”  Illya trailed a thick finger through the moisture, writing something.

“Think of it is as free time.  Time to get everything right now.  No more rushing, no more just in time moments.  Time enough to take a breath and look around.”  Napoleon dropped his hand over Illya’s and shook his head.  “None of that now.”

“Free time.  There’s an oxymoron for you.  There is no such thing as free time.  Everything has a price, even time.  You should know that.”  Illya glanced down at Napoleon’s hand.  Like his, it was scarred with the efforts of their work.  Long thin white lines, shorter, fatter ones - souvenirs of their trade.

“You’re in a mood today.” Napoleon signaled the bartender.  “Our tab, please?”

“I’m supposed to be celebratory?  For this?”  Illya waved his hand.  “Used, abused, and then thrown away like an old rag.  No more voice, no more purpose, no more power… what the hell do we have to celebrate?”  He stared at his palm, just as scarred as the back of his hand, a cut from a knife, a scar from a rope burn, a nick, a gouge, his hands were like road maps to violence.  His wrists were thick and scarred from the multiple ropes, handcuffs, manacles, wires – over the years he’d been bound so many times, but never with anything as strong as the connection that kept him at his partner’s side.

Outside, muffled by the jukebox playing something sad and low, church bells began to ring.  Their ringing sounded surreal in here – a place of smoky regrets, tears, and introspection.  Outside, it was bright and warm, alive with possibilities.  Yet it was in here they stayed.  It was in here they hid.

“It’s time.”  Napoleon dug his billfold out and set some bills on the check.  “This is my treat.  Let’s go do this.”

“Why can’t we just stay here?”  Illya looked back into his empty glass.  “Isn’t this enough to count as free time?  Can’t we just stay here and do this our own way?”

“No.  We may be old and used up, according to you, Illya, but we’re not cowards.  We need to do this.  We need to face this straight on and with our heads held high.”  He settled a hand on Illya’s arm and squeezed.  “Let’s go, partner.”

 


End file.
